Chapter 36
thirty-six
Look, I know I spout a lot of bullshit.
But if anyone lays a hand on my omega, there will be blood .
Our Maybach rolls to a stop at the front of The Crown’s latest pet project—a hospital of some kind. I sneer up at all eight stories of blue glass and modern architecture, hating the whole damn building on principle.
“Is everyone familiar with the plan?”
Asher tugs his sleeves as he speaks, scowling down at the cuffs of his tweed suit jacket. I refused to wear one, opting to cover my white button-down with a black vest and nothing else.
Half my shirt is untucked. Bast glowers at it, but knows better than to complain. They’re lucky I even have a damn collar on.
Our prettiest packmate is wearing some insane white blazer, of course. Along with a navy shirt and trousers to match the Burns family crest emblazoned on the suit’s left breast.
It’s sort of insane that he won’t be able to wear stuff like that anymore, if we bond with Ivy and become a real pack. Giving up my name won’t be a sacrifice for me, but it will be for Lord Sebastian Burns.
I wonder how Ivy feels about her name. I know it was her father’s, the alpha who died when she was young. And her mother’s, by extension. She might not want to part with it…
I eye her across the back of the limo, raking my gaze over her elegant outfit. It’s a cream suit—feminine and fitted, with pink trim and a blush ruffle along the skirt’s hem. Her hair is as lovely as ever, the cool-blonde waves styled with pearl-encrusted combs.
She’s gorgeous .
And terrified .
The scent of her stress has been turning my stomach since we attempted breakfast two hours ago. I was lucky I got my coffee down, especially after she announced she was “full” after two bites of a waffle and half a cup of tea.
Asher might hate this shit as much as I do. He’s been all frowns and bitter bergamot, holding her body against his like he’s absorbing the last of her.
He might be.
There’s a chance she’ll run screaming from all of this before the day is done.
I know, deep down, Asher’s been dreading this moment. Thrusting his beloved girl into the limelight. Subjecting her to scrutiny and ridicule. Forcing her to fit into our box… or fail him.
Bast is the only one in the car who doesn’t seem nauseous. He sits forward with a clap. “Show off our gorgeous girl to these fine photographers, head inside so Asher can cut a giant ribbon, then go upstairs for a formal tour of the pediatric wing.”
He winks at Ivy. “Easy peasy, angel.”
If only.
Smothering a growl, I flex my fingers in and out of balled fists. “We don’t have to go in, Ivy.” I bore my gaze into hers. “Seriously. I’ll leave with you.”
Asher cuts me a severe look. “Of course you will.”
I guess because he doesn’t have any choice about being here. And I’m normally the first one to break from the team. Still, the bastard has some nerve to criticize me when he’s the one putting our omega through this whole mess.
I start to snarl, but Ivy catches my eye again, shaking her head. “P-please don’t fight. I—My—” She presses a dainty hand over her middle as her voice drops to a hush. “She hates it.”
Well. Fuck.
That shuts us all up.
Ivy is still coming to terms with her Omega and her body’s needs. Given how bad her health anxiety must be when we’re about to walk into a hospital… and all these rabid reporters outside…
Swallowing, Ivy’s light eyes scan the tinted glass behind me, absorbing the crowd of media leeches waiting for us. With a slight nod, she drops her gaze and answers Asher’s earlier inquiry, “It’s a good plan, Ash.”
Asher sighs, abandoning our argument to brush a kiss over Ivy’s knuckles. “You don’t have to do anything but be yourself,” he vows, staring hard over his glasses. “And tell us immediately if you feel overwhelmed or want to leave.”
As soon as he has her agreement, Asher heaves out a deep breath. I watch him slam a mask of indifference over his features, going from the guy we know to the man the world sees when they turn on the news.
He raps twice on the door. It promptly flies open, revealing a raucous rabble of paparazzi and flashing cameras.
Bast turns on the charm, visibly pasting a grin onto his face before stepping out first. I hear him managing some of the rowdier photographers with a few well-placed barbs. Always charming and likable—even when he’s telling people to back the fuck off.
Asher goes next, squeezing Ivy’s knee before sliding out of the car. I catch our omega’s wide eyes from across the backseat, silently offering to bust her out of here one final time.
Her fear shatters into exasperation as she huffs, “Can’t you use that evil mind for good? Just the once?”
I shrug. “Best I can do is inappropriate flirting. Maybe a little light recon if someone seems shady.”
She’s adorable when she pouts. Even more so when she wags a finger at me. “ Behave , Stalker.”
Which is how, for the first time ever, I find myself smiling when I slouch out of a damn limo.
It takes Ivy twenty minutes to put me to shame.
She’s just… enchanting .
Her glowing little smile, the honest shyness in her eyes. The way she makes a point to stop and shake hands with every person who steps up to meet her—including about fifteen nurses, ten doctors, and a few janitors to boot.
She asks questions, too. Following along as the president of the board gives his tour, pausing to inquire about everything from new equipment to how they fund community outreach projects.
All sorts of shit that probably should have occurred to me.
Okay. Shit that has occurred to me, but I’ve chosen to ignore.
Just like I’m choosing to ignore the way one doctor is staring at my omega’s chest. Because we may be in a hospital, but strangling someone half to death would probably still be frowned upon.
The sweet woman slanting her bright blue gaze up at me definitely wouldn’t approve.
I bend close so no one will overhear me. “All good, baby?”
She nods absently, her brows furrowing as she glances at the pamphlet someone handed her. It’s their philanthropy bullshit—details on how much healthcare and aid they give away to communities in need.
“I was just wondering,” she murmurs back, casting a nervous look at Bast and Asher as they charge ahead of us, locked in a conversation about an upcoming insurance initiative in Parliament. “Are there any rules about how much private hospitals are required to write off?”
She’s too smart for me, I swear. It takes a moment for me to follow her train of thought. “As in…?”
“Like, a certain percentage of their profits, maybe? Because I researched this hospital group before today, and the figures in the pamphlet look like a lot of money… but it’s really less than one percent of their profits.”
She’s earnestly confused. Thinking she’s made a mistake. When, in reality, I have a sinking feeling she’s exactly right.
And no, I don’t think there is a rule to ensure places like this aren’t hoarding profits and turning away those who can’t pay.
Which is fucked up, considering how many people need decent healthcare and can’t afford it.
People… like my mate.
If she had come to a place like this instead of whatever shitty public clinic she had to use, would she have discovered her designation at the proper time? Might she have been spared from accidentally suppressing her hormones and harming her Omega?
Would we have found her sooner? Before I had the chance to hurt her?
And—for that matter—why the hell is our government-funded low-income medicine so crap anyway?
Can’t we do better?
Why haven’t I ever tried?